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Tommy Johnson Mar 2015
My mind is out of focus
And my mouth is dry
My eyes are too heavy
'Im so very tired

And my face is blank
My heart is slow
My body is so warm
Then it turns cold

Now my body twitches
My breathing is getting deep
I can't trust my ears
Or images that I see

It seems that I'm here
But my mind is gone
Time seems so short
But feels so long

My system needs a shock
Or a wake up call
When you talk to me
Its like conversing with a wall

Caffeine don’t do a thing
Caffeine won;t do a thing
Caffeine does nothing
Caffeine do something
The sunshine hurts my eyes
My mood is so damp
I'm like a zombie
Try to get up but I can't

Brain drain
Brain drain
Causing me mental pain

Brain drain
Brain drain
My head can't sustain

Brain drain
Brain drain
Everything looks the same

Brain drain
Brain drain
I feel so lame

Brain drain
Brain drain
I can't concentrate
Brain drain
Brain drain
Worn out from this game

Wake me up
Get me up
Keep me up
Give me up

My head begs for endorphins
But I cant oblige
Now I'm feeling down
It weeps and it cries

Keep my head spinning
At every minute of every day
But now I'm running on fumes
You got nothing to say

You got my heart, hold it oh so tight
I go behind your back doing things that ain't so right
Wrap me up in all this drama I wanna leave
I need to take a break I'm almost outta steam

In school I'm barely getting by
Because I'm focused on getting laid and getting high
My mind wandered off
To where it shouldn't have been
So now it has died
And buried with my sins

I wanna go back to normal
Original thought process
Mind and body went to hell and back
All I can do is digress

I had too much fun for way to long
So now my right is left and my left is wrong

I've got all this stress and it piles up
But it's on my shoulders and I can't pass the buck

I find no enjoyment in what I once held dear
Becoming eternally empty is my deepest fear
Brandon Sep 2013
Another day and its falling apart
I try to fight it but it never changes
I try to rearrange but it stays the same
Can't explain away these words
Or how I can't complain
But there's these memories
They just won't let me go
(Let me go)

So I drain myself of you
Feel you letting go
Tear me all down
And throw it all away
I drain myself of you

I've bled for too many miles
And these lungs are too full of sin
It's crashing down around
All the mistakes I have made
And all the words I could never say
(Could never say)

So I drain myself of you
Feel you letting go
Tear me all down
And throw it all away
I drain myself of you

It's crashing down around
All the mistakes I have made
And all the words I could never say
(All the words I could never say)

Another day and its fallen apart
I tried to fight it but it never changed
I tried to rearrange but it always stayed the same
Can't explain away these words
Or how I can't complain
But there's these moments
They just won't let me go
(Let me go)

I drain myself of you
I drain these lies of you
I drain myself of you
I drain these lies of you
I drain..
Drain...
Sayer Jan 2014
drain it out,
drain it out

drain me of pollution in my burning soul
cloudy days destroy tattoos on people
stuck in my head
and to hear the cries of
people looking for rights(andwrongs)

i don't need a star and i don't need a connection
betweenotherworldythings
drain it out, everything
the doubt
the senses
the emotion
this background buzz obliterates
my eardrums
-----------------------------------------------------
i­nto the sea of people again
no one looks at me
you've ruined it
i sink into some sink,
down the hole- -
falling

i can't understand why you don't
want to drain me out of you
and why i can't drain you out of me
it's the nightmare that just keeps going
and going
and flashes of faces of your face
just eat the hole
just eat the whole lot
impressing the press and the hole
and ripping me apart (with your
eyes)
the rambling and the falling will stop one day,
(I think i'll just have a little taste)
I have pressed i have pressed I have pressed i have pressed
you down to your core as you have pressed me
but nothing has been drained out except my invisible energy-

that is the pleasure of life
Arcassin B Oct 2015
by Arcassin B & Wolfspirit

AB :Trying to pull myself out of this hole
of a downward prosperity,
confide in me or confine me,
I'm dead inside either way,
don't know how much I can take if I stay,
Down the drain,
down the drain,
down the drain,
down in it I go , from the story that was never told,
locking me away for money, this isn't charity,
lie to them , speak your mind to me,
I'm dead inside either way,
I just keep sinking more and more,
Down the drain,
down the drain,
down the drain.
WS : got my survival kit built into this psyche
pulling myself up with each downward tumble
ain't gonna let no lifetaster heart waster
selfish bleedin' souls pull me down
too busy making the best of this go round
time to take up slack and draw a new direction
upward trajectory, merely seeking perfection
this constant self effacing doubt will surely **** me
no longer waiting time to let the world thrill me
i'm a lover..i ain't no killer
juts gonna have to be my own chiller, thriller,
AB : hopefully won't drive me to being a dealer,
coiling my toes,
keeping temptation away in every step,
when dirt from the ground arose,
filling us up  to be the stringy ones,
up on desire as I crept,
downward I go to an endless cycle of falling,
making me so so so so so so sick of everything,
I can't keep screaming,
down the drain,
I filled the void for days just to feel a pain,
down the drain,
you needing confirmation just seems pretty lame,
WS : no time to waste on commiseration
i walk proud, upright, secure in my station
belie the pomp and circumstance
get on with the joy, to live for the dance
this thing called life, we need only the living
to share the warmth of caring and giving
let sleeping dogs lie just where they fall
drop the issues unimportant and heed the call
each one has a gift, something to offer
instead of selfishly filling their coffer
it's like this and like that, when we get down to it
it's like that and like this, so let's just do it.
Wolves in the Ark
Lawrence Hall Jun 2017
Swamp the Drain

Now once upon a time there was a drain
A happy little drain that all day drained
Which is the nature of what good drains do
Letting things flow away, off to the sea

One day a blustering bullfrog strutted about
And croaked that the drain was not any good
He said he’d swamp that drain with a huuuuge dam
A beautiful dam – his audience was riveted

And he croaked and he croaked and still he croaked
                                                 ­                all day
But the happy little drain drained his croaks
                                                                ­ away
corpser Aug 2016
The drain, it sings to me.
Everytime i sit down the toilet to take a *******
The drain it sings to me.
Of laughter and phonecalls in the past
Of late nights and sloppy shower ***
The drain it sings to me
With faint echoes and tiny whispers
I remember you
And your skin and your flesh and your bones
And the drain sings to me no more
The bucket's filled with water and it chokes up the drain's lovely voice.
Come to think of it
You used to sing to me too
In the past.
Risa Ruse Jun 2011
Drain The ***** Water First

By Risa Ruse

I celebrated my victory over persecution.
I did this by sharing my story of resolution.

I retorted my discovery.
It was related to work done to my gutters in recovery.

When on the latter burling a hole in the gutter the water kept pouring out.
I could not finish my goal of making a spout.

I realized that I needed to stop drilling the hole.
The matter needed time to drain the ***** water to complete my goal.

Like the gutters needing to drain--
So did my brain.

I had to get rid of all the old hurts.
Otherwise my heart was sure to burst!

Now the ***** water was all let out.
I give thanks for the new spout.

Not only that, but my life has taken a turn-about.
I throw up my hands in praise and give a shout!
This is one of my published poems in my book, "PTSD Poetry Healing Restores Joy and Prosperity". In my poetry anthology I show how I went through the steps to clean out each negative emotion from past trauma through poetry inspired by the Divine.  These emotions are universal for those suffering from PTSD. My poems are published articles used in PTSD healing workshops. http://RisaRuse.com
Bo Burnham Mar 2015
You think I'm crazy?
HA! That's real funny.

If I were crazy, would I have written a twelve-hundred-page novel without using a single vowel?
No. 'Cause I did. And I'm not crazy.

If I were crazy, would I be able to predict the future by dropping empty tuna cans into an open drain in my backyard?
No. 'Cause I can. And I'm not crazy.

If I were crazy, would I love to slit your ******* throat just to watch the color drain from from your face and onto that cleanly pressed collared shirt of yours?
Yes. I would love that if I were crazy.

But I'm not crazy.
Just Me Sep 2015
Put you there
slide deep within my thighs, warm and dampened
kiss me with your fingertips hands feel me inside
Fingers deep and as strong as you
find my moans
Let the river flow

Thoughts at the speed of light only a genuine lust can conceive

Sparkling skin, wetter with every touch consume my physical soul
Screaming lips and a caressing tongue don't save me now devour me whole
Movement sweeter then any slow dance, the power and precision of any known art

Bodies closer then my own flesh
Gripping hands led only by fierce eyes and *****
Rip me open ramming stealth
Quicken me till my breath won't allow
Hurricane tongue soften and drink

Take my nails and craving teeth
Slow and steady, rough and and hard
Take it all
Give and give me all
My skins tingling take your ravenous bite
Drain me now as I drain you
Finish with a rhythmic pattern
Beat us colliding shooting thunder

Bind us with our rain
Drain drain drain us
Till beautiful pain and sensual screams are no more
bodies release, and fall weak...
Want no more...
Don't kiss me sweet
Kiss my feet
Goddess, queen
You my king
This marriage is only our bodies vow
Natures wonders all of them felt

Echoing forever sinful smile
Lingering passion I'll savor
In my most precious darkest liquid dreams
And when we meet again...
No sheets
All but love .... A bodies calling
PoserPersona Aug 2018
Gaze on that woman by the train.
With curves like gunpowder
that will shoot fireworks again.
As her and I once were.

Since then, of women, I've abstained.
My chest is a pyre
to the damsel I couldn't retain;
fondness that won’t expire.


You say I could never attain
and imply I'm a liar!?
Or you think either me insane
or least she's miswired?

The evidence on my brain -
melancholy, ire -
the despondent husk that remains,
need you more enquire?


...True, of her, no displays of pain;
eyes that jolt not tire,
poker voice tipping no disdain,
legs that feed desire!

For her, gone love is not a chain
hidden by attire
or flushed down a forgotten drain.
It merely retired.

Love like hers was the wind and rain
to my earth and fire.
"My woman says that she prefers to marry no one
over me, not even if Jupiter himself should seek her.
She says (these things), but what a woman says to her desirous lover
is fitting to write on the wind and on fast-flowing water."
Poem 70 - Catullus
Nobody Aug 2017
There's no place to suffer,
no going away.
It's dark in here,
all of my days.
No smiling lights,
no happy surprise.
Only this disguise,
of constant lies.
I know they bother them,
my sad eyes.
They can't bear to see,
they want me to hide.
Just stay empty inside,
so they won't feel down.
Still one by one,
they all turn around.
They never stay,
or test their extent of pain.
They only obey
their impulse to stray far away,
and desert me to ache
in this dark hole, they can’t take.
Where I get no relief,
not even in sleep.
So I guess save yourself,
I’ll taint that light you keep.
Burden your soul,
till you can't take anymore.
Drain you dry,
before I kiss you goodbye.
And you'll never know,
when it's all done;
I'll still be empty,
but you'll be gone.
Contoured Dec 2017
Your contradictions lead me to think,
That I'm the only contributor plugging the sink.
It's overflowing, something's stuck,
I peer down the drain, it's filled with muck.
What you don't understand is I'm not the whole cause,
You're not either, but we both carry flaws.
I like to watch the water drip down the drain,
So I don't have to go out and get wet from the rain.
You like the thought of where it goes,
As you hear the sweet symphony the drops compose.
But these faults alone don't hold the drops hostile,
It's a compilation of things that put them in exile.
Please don't blame just you or me,
One day it'll clear and the drops will drip free.
But until then, we have to stay sane,
As we listen to the water drip down the plugged drain.
There was once a girl named Caroline. Caroline was very lonely, as she did not have a family, or any friends. Caroline read a lot, which made her feel less lonely, but books couldn't love her back.

One day, Caroline decided she would make friends. She went to school and tried to talk to everyone one who walked by her, but nobody talked to her. She raised her hand, but the teacher wouldn't call on her. She sat alone at lunch, but she was still happy there were tater tots.

When Caroline got home, she went to take a bath, as she was very *****. Before she could turn on the water, a small voice called up to her. "Please don't turn the water on," the voice said, "The water will wash me down the drain!" Caroline thought for a second, and then decided to get a closer look.

When Caroline got closer, she noticed a spider in her bathtub. The spider didn't look scary, like her teachers had always told her they were. This spider looked small and scared. She decided to pick up the spider, rather than wash it down the drain. The small spider began to talk to Caroline very fast.

"Hello, my name is Ivy. Thank you for saving me. I know you must be very scared, but I am not a bad spider. There are some very scary spiders out there, but you don't have to be scared of me." Caroline looked at the spider curiously, and asked why a spider would live in the bathtub. "Well, nobody usually bothers me here. You're the first person to talk to me". Because Caroline didn't have any friends, and because she wanted to help the spider, she asked if Ivy would like to be her friend, and live somewhere with less water. "That would be lovely!" cried Ivy.

Every day, Caroline would come home from school and talk to Ivy and read to her. Caroline came to love Ivy very much, as Ivy always made her smile and laugh, or help her with her homework.

One day, Caroline came home and Ivy wasn't in her normal spot. Caroline went searching for her, but could not find her. Soon, she decided to take a bath. Caroline turned on the water, and then heard a much louder voice than she heard the day she met Ivy. As she looked down she spotted Ivy, avoiding the water.

"How dare you, Caroline! You almost drown me! You should've known I was in the shower!" Caroline was confused. "I'm sorry! I looked for you, but I couldn’t find you, so I came to take a bath. I didn't know you were in the shower!" To that, Ivy responded, "Well, I guess I forgive you, but make sure that you don't do it again."

As weeks went by, Caroline noticed Ivy listened to her stories most of the time, but some days she only pretended to listen. Caroline Blamed herself, because she almost drowned Ivy. Caroline kept reading and telling Ivy about her day, even when she was only pretending to listen.

A few weeks later, Caroline came home to find Ivy missing again. She searched all over for her, even the bathroom where she found her last time, but Ivy was nowhere to be found. Caroline knew it was time for her bath, so she went to the other bathroom, just incase Ivy was in the first bathroom.

When Caroline turned on the water, it ran for a few minutes before she heard a long yell. It was Ivy. She tried to apologize, but Ivy just kept yelling. Caroline turned off the water and tried to pick Ivy up to help her, but Ivy bit Caroline, so Caroline threw her down in pain. "Ow!" said Caroline "You bit me! I didn't mean to hurt you! I didn’t know you were there. I'm sorry. I just wish you would stop sitting in the bathtub…"

With this, Ivy only became more angry. "I was in the bathroom first! Nobody bothered me in here until you came along! This is my space, but you keep ruining it by turning on the water!" Caroline didn't know what to do, so she just started to cry. "I'm sorry Ivy. I just wish you wouldn't sit in the bathtub, because the water may wash you away one day, and I would be very sad to lose you. I love you a lot, Ivy. I'm just scared you might get hurt."

Ivy grumbled and told Caroline to leave her alone, because she didn't want a friend who hurt her like Caroline did. Caroline became very sad, but the spot where Ivy bit her began to hurt a lot, so she had to find somebody to help her.

The next day at school, she showed her teachers where Ivy had bitten her, and they tried to help her, but they only put burn cream on her and told her to wash Ivy down the drain. Caroline loved Ivy, and she did not want her to be washed away, she just wanted her to stop sitting where the water could hurt her. The burn cream didn't help.

After a very long time, Ivy crawled into Caroline's room and told Caroline she was sorry. The spot where Ivy had bit Caroline hurt a lot now, but the teachers would only give her something that didn't help, and hand her a bucket of water. Caroline felt bad for Ivy, so she let her come back into her room.

For the next few days, all was well. But after a week, Ivy was missing again. Caroline found her in the bathroom, so she tried to pick her up, but Ivy just bit Caroline in the same spot again. Caroline threw Ivy down and ran to her bedroom, followed by Ivy's angry voice.

Once again, Caroline told her teachers about Ivy and how she had bitten her in the same spot as last time. The teachers told Caroline they couldn't do anything more than they already had, and they ran out of water. Caroline went home with a very big spider bite, and an even bigger frown on her face.

Caroline was very confused now, because while she loved Ivy very very much, Ivy seemed to only love hurting Caroline. Caroline didn't want to lose Ivy, because Ivy was her first and only friend, but the teachers kept telling her she needed to see a doctor about the spider bite, and she needed to find her own water to wash Ivy away.

Caroline could not go to the doctor right now, because Ivy assured her she was not poisonous, and that she was only imagining the bite being as bad as it was. Caroline tried to stay away from Ivy, but Ivy kept coming into her room and then getting angry and leaving again, but that hurt Caroline too.

After several weeks, Caroline's bite hurt more than it ever had, so she went to the doctor. The doctor told her that it was in fact a spider bite (even though Caroline already knew this), but that only time could heal it.

Caroline went home very sad that day. When she got home, Caroline decided to pack up all of her books and get a bath, no matter if Ivy was in there or not, because Caroline was very *****.

When Caroline turned on the water, Ivy began to yell very loud. Caroline didn't hear her this time though, because she was leaving in an hour and she had to get a bath, and nothing but that mattered. Ivy flowed down the drain with the rest of the ***** water, and Caroline was once again clean.

An hour later, Caroline got onto the bus with her books and smiled, because she was clean again.

Epilogue

A few years later, Caroline looked down at the small scar on her hand where she had been bitten a few years ago. It still hurt every so often, but she knew this was a different kind of pain. The bright lights of the city gleamed down on Caroline and she smiled, because no spider was too big for her in a big city.
Tara Marie Nov 2014
Skies are hues of sullen smoke,
pavements glossed in rain;
falling softly, picturesque.
Where does the water drain?

Hands of many compromises,
eyes engulfed in pain.
Washing worries with off-brand soap.
Where does the water drain?

The daydreams, they are staring back
irises of shame,
that only scrutinize themselves.
Where does the water drain?

Tears are not expelling,
the force of strength; insane,
God swims inside them somewhere new,
Where does the water drain?

The only one who's ever seen
my soul beyond a windowpane.
A mist, a fall, a downpour,
but *Where does the water drain?
Wuji Jul 2012
Drained drained drained,
Drained my life again.
Mosquitoes will drain until the end ,
Drained drained again.
They drain the blood and life,
They are ******* knife.
But as they drain your life again,
They can only descend,
And descend,
Until out of sight.
Can't see swarm ahead?
Must be out of mind.
So the saying goes,
True words always rhyme.
Mosquito mosquito,
You must have drained my life.
I am full of empty thoughts,
The only thing looking good is that knife.
Sorry Mr. Mosquito,
This time I take the blood.
And if the scent lures you in,
You have clearly had enough.
If I drain the blood,
Will it remove the pain?
Or maybe the mosquito will help me out,
And allow me to avoid a carpet stain.
Mr. Mosquito,
It looks like you are all that I remain.
Are you jealous of the husk you ******,
Who can no longer feel pain?
Drain the sinks before closing.
Megan Leigh Aug 2014
Be with me when I am merely lines and edges, seeping into myself,
like soap through fingers after being scrubbed raw.
Can I wash my skin so much that it turns to dust and rubble?
Bright pink and raw, water merging with water, salted with emotion, steaming heat.
My mother always reminded me to wash behind my ears,
but a cotton cloth does not have the strength to cleanse mine from what they’ve heard.
Furious lather, scraping bits of skin, thumbs cracked and caked, kisses as bandaids.
Down the drain.
Swirls and rushes, empty tub and words to go down with it.
Wet tile bed, curled around the steamed aluminum, bunched eyes and clenched fists.
A railed curtain shield, droplets of moisture running, clear and red concoction.
Down the drain.
Hot to cold comfort, fingernail paintings, ripped skin and cracked tap.
Drip but not drop, losing but not lost.
Crawl up, out of dangerous waters, hoisting over porcelain obstacles.
Pull the plug from the outside, all fours on linoleum floors.
Down the drain.
RAJ NANDY Feb 2015
AN INTRODUCTION TO INDIAN ART IN VERSE  
By Raj Nandy : Part One

INTRODUCTION
Background :
The India subcontinent and her diverse physical features,
influenced her dynamic history, religion, and culture!
The fertile basin of the Sapta-Sindu Rivers* cradled one of
world’s most ancient civilization, (seven rivers)
Contemporary to the Sumerians and the Egyptians, popularly
known as the Indus Valley Civilization!
The Sindu (Indus), Jhelum, Chenab, Ravi, Sutlej, Bias, along
with the sacred river Saraswati, shaped India’s early History;
Where once flourished the urban settlements of Harappa and
Mohenjodaro, which lay buried for several centuries;
For our archaeologists and scholars to unravel their many
secrets and hidden mysteries!
Modern scholars refer to it as ‘Indus-Saraswati Civilization’;
By interpreting the text of the Rig Veda which mentions
eclipses, equinoxes, and other astronomical conjunctions,
They date the origin of the Vedas as earlier as 3000 BC;
Thereby lifting the fog which shrouds Ancient History! +
(+ Two broad schools of thoughts prevail; Max Mullar refers
to 1500 BC as the date for origin of the Vedas, but modern scientific findings point to a much earlier date for their Oral composition and
their long oral tradition!)

On the banks of the sacred Saraswati River the holy sages
did once meditate, *
When their third eye opened, as all earthly bonds they did
transcend !
From their lips flowed the sacred chants of the Vedas, as
they sang the creator Brahma’s unending praise!
These Vedic chants and incantations survived many
centuries of an oral tradition,
When Indian Art began to blossom into exotic flowers like
Brahma’s divine manifestations;
With all subsequent art forms following the model of
Brahma’s manifold creations!
The Vedas got written down during the later Vedic Age
with commentaries and interpolations,
And remain as India’s indigenous composition, forming a
part of her sacred religious tradition! *
(
Rig Veda the oldest, had hymns in praise of the creator;
Yajur Veda spelled the ritual procedures; Sama Veda sets
the hymns for melodious chanting, & is the source of seven
notes of music; Artha Veda had hymns for warding off evil
& hardship, giving us a glimpse of early Vedic life.)

IMPACT OF FOREIGN INVASIONS:
Through the winding Khyber Pass cutting through the rugged
Hindu Kush Range,
Came the Persians, Greeks, Muslims, the Moguls, and many
bounty hunters storming through north-western frontier gate;
Consisting of varied racial groups and cultures, they entered
India’s fertile alluvial plains!
Therefore, while tracing 5000 years of Art Story, one cannot
divorce Art from India’s exotic cultural history.
From the Cave Art of Bhimbetka, to the dancing girl of Harappa,
To the frescoes and the evocative figures of Ajanta and Ellora;
Many marvelous and exquisitely carved temples of the South,
And Muslim and Mogul architecture and frescoes along with
India’s rich Folk Art, enriched her artistic heritage no doubt!
Yet for a long time Indian Art had been the least known of
the Oriental Arts,
Perhaps because from Western point of view it was difficult
to understand the spirit behind Indian Art!
For Indian Art is at once aesthetic and sensual, also passionate,
symbolic, and spiritual !
It both celebrates and denies the individual’s love of life,
where free instinct with rigid reason combine !
These contradictory elements are found side by side due to
her culturally mixed conditions, as I had earlier mentioned!
Now, if we add to this the constant religious exaltation,
With the extensive use of symbolic presentation, from the
early days of Indian civilization;
We have the basic elements of an Art, which has gradually
aroused the interest of Western Civilization!

The further we get back in time, we only begin to find,
That religion, philosophy, art and architecture,
Had all merged into an unified whole to form India’s
composite culture!
But while moving forward in time, we once again find,
That art, architecture, music, poetry and dance, all begin to
gradually emerge, with their separate identities,
Where Indian Art is seen as a rich mosaic of cultural diversity!

(NOTES:-In the ancient days, the Saraswati River flowed from the Siwalik Range of Hills (foothills of the Himalayas) between Sutlej & the Yamuna rivers, through the present day Rann of Kutch into the Arabian Sea, when Rajasthan was a fertile place! Indus settlements like Kalibangan, Banawalli, Ganwaiwala, were situated on the banks of Sarsawati River, which was longer than the Indus & ran parallel, and is mentioned around50 times in the Rig Veda! Scientists say that due to tectonic plate movements, and climatic changes, Saraswati dried up around 1700BC ! The people settled there shifted east and the south, during the course of history! Some of those Indo-Aryan speaking people were already settled there, & others joined later. Max Muller’s theory of an Aryan Invasion which destroyed the Indus Valley Civilization during 1500BC, supported by Colonial Rulers, was subsequently proved wrong ! Indo-Aryans were a Language group of the Indo- European
Language Family, & not a racial group as mistaken by Max Mullar! Therefore Dr.Romila Thapar calls it a gradual migration, & not an invasion! The Vedas were indigenous composition of India. However, they got compiled & written down for the first time with commentaries, at a much later date! I have maintained this position since it has been proved by modern scholars scientifically!)

SYMBOLISM IN INDIAN ART
From the ancient Egyptian hieroglyphic to the Cretan Bull
of Greece,
Symbols have conveyed ideas and messages, fulfilling
artistic needs.
The ‘Da Vinci Code’ speaks of Leonardo’s art works as
symbolic subterfuge with encrypted messages for a secret
society!
While Indian art is replete with many sacred symbols to
attract good fortune, for the benefit of the community!
The symbols of the Dot or ‘Bindu’, the Lotus, the Trident,
the Conch shell, the sign and chant of ‘OM’, are all sacred
and divine;
For at the root of Indian artistic symbolism lies the Indian
concept of Time!
The West tends to think of time as a dynamic process which
is forward moving and linear;
Commencing with the ‘Big Bang’, moving towards a ‘Big
Crunch’, when ‘there shall be no more time’, or a state of
total inertia !
Indian art and sculpture is influenced by the cyclic concept
of time unfolding a series of ages or ‘yugas’;
Where creation, destruction and recreation, becomes a
dynamic and an unending phenomena!
This has been artistically and symbolically expressed in the
figure of Shiva-Nataraja’s cosmic dance,
Which portrays the entire kinetic universe in a state of
eternal flux!
The hour-glass drum in Nataraja’s right hand symbolizes
all creation;
Fire in his left hand the cyclic time frame of destruction!
The raised third hand is in a gesture of infinite benediction;
And the fourth hand pointing to his upraised foot shows the
path of liberation!

It was easier to teach the vast untutored population through
symbols, images, and paintings in the form of Art;
For a picture is more effective than a thousand words!
The Dot or ‘bindu’ becomes the focus for meditation,
Where the mental energies are focused on a single point of
creation,
As seen in the cotemporary art works of SH Raza’s
artistic representations!
Yet the same dot when expanded as a circle becomes
wholeness and infinity;
The shape of celestial bodies of the cyclic universe in its
creativity!
The Lotus seen in many sculptures, on temple walls, and
majestic columns, denotes purity;
A symbol of non-attachment rising above the muddy waters,
retaining its pristine color and beauty!
The Lotus is a powerful and transformational symbol in
Buddhist Art,
Where pink lotus is for height of enlightenment, blue for
wisdom, white for spiritual perfection, and the red lotus
symbolizing the heart!
This Lotus symbol also finds a place in Mughal sculptural
carvings and miniatures;
The inverted lotus dome resting on its petals, forms the
crown of Taj Mahal’s white marble architecture!
The trident or ‘trishul’ symbolizes the three god-heads
Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva;
As the Creator, Preserver and Destroyer, in that cyclic
chain which goes on forever!
The ***** stone of Shiva-lingam surrounded by the oval
female yoni symbolizes fertility and creation,
Usually found in the inner sanctuary of Hindu temples!
Finally, the symbol of ‘OM’ and its vibrating sound,
Echoes the primordial vibrations with which space and
time abounds!
All matter comes from energy vibrations manifesting
cosmic creation;
Also symbolized in Einstein’s famous matter-energy equation!
The Conch Shell a gift of the sea when blown, sounds the
ancient primordial vibration of ‘OM’!
It’s hallowed auspicious sound accompanies marriage
ceremonies and rituals whenever occasion demands;
And pacifies mother earth during Shiva-Nataraja’s sudden
seismic dance! (earthquakes)
Dear readers the symbols mentioned here are very few,
Mainly to curb the length, while I pay Indian Art my
artistic due!

A BRIEF COMPARISON OF ART:
Despite the many foreign influences which entered India
through the Khyber and Bholan pass,
India displayed marvelous adaptability and resilience, in
the development of her indigenous Art!
The aesthetic objectivity of Western Art was replaced by
the Indian vision of spiritual subjectivity,
For the transitory world around was only a ‘Maya’ or an
Illusion,- lacking material reality!
Therefore life-like representation was not always the aim
of Indian art,
But to lift that veil and reveal the life of the spirit, - was
the objective from the very start!
Egyptian funerary art was more occupied with after-life
and death;
While the Greeks portrayed youthful vigor and idealized
beauty, celebrating the joys of life instead!
The proud Roman Emperors to outshine their predecessors
erected even bigger statues, monuments, and columns
draped in glory;
Only in the long run to drain the Roman treasury, - a sad
downfall story!
Indian art gradually evolved over centuries with elements
both religious and secular,
As seen from the period of King Chandragupta Maurya,
Who defeated the Greek Seleucus, to carve out the first
united Indian Empire ! (app. 322 BC)

SECULAR AND SPIRITUAL FUSION IN ART:
Ancient Indian ‘stupas’
and temples were not like churches
or synagogues purely spiritual and religious,
But were cultural centers depicting secular images which
were also non-religious!
The Buddhist ‘stupa’ at Amravati (1stcentury BC), and the
gateways at Sanchi (1stcentury AD), display wealth of carvings
from the life of Buddha;
Also warriors on horseback, royal procession, trader’s caravans,
farmers with produce, - all secular by far!
Indian temples from the 8th Century AD onwards depicted
images of musicians, dancers, acrobats and romantic couples,
along with a variety of Deities;
But after 10th Century ****** themes began to make their mark
with depiction of sensuality!
Sensuality and ****** interaction in temples of Khajuraho and
Konarak has been displayed without inhibition;
As Tantric ideas on compatibility of human sexuality with
human spirituality, fused into artistic depictions!
Religion got based on a healthy and egalitarian acceptance
of all activities without ****** starvation;
For the emotional health and well-being of society, without
hypocritical denial or inhibition!
(’Stupas’= originated from ancient burial mounds, later became devotional Buddhist sites with holy relics, & external decorative gateways and carvings!)

KHJURAHO TEMPLE COMPLEX (950 - 1040 AD) :
Was built by the Chandela Rajputs in Central India,
When Khajuraho, the land of the moon gods, was the first
capital city of the Chandelas!
****** art covers ten percent of the temple sculptures,
Where both Hindu and Jain temples were built in the north-Indian
Nagara style of Architecture.
Out of the 85 temples only 22 have stood the vagaries of time,
Where a perfect fusion of aesthetic elegance and evocative
Kama-Sutra like ****** sculptural brilliance, - dazzle the eyes!

KONARAK SUN TEMPLE OF ORISSA - EAST COAST:
From the Khajuraho temple of love, we now move to the
Konark temple of *** in stones - as art!
Built around 1250 AD in the form of a temple mounted on
a huge cosmic chariot for the Sun God;
With twelve pairs of stone-carved wheels pulled by seven
galloping horses, symbolizing the passage of time under
the Solar God !
Seven horses for each day of the week, pulls the chariot
east wards towards dawn;
With twelve pairs of wheels representing the twelve calendar
months, as each cyclic day ushers in a new morn !
The friezes above and below the chariot wheels show military
processions, with elephants and hunting scenes;
Celebrating the victory of King Narasimhadeva-I over the
invading Muslims!
The ****** art and voluptuous carvings symbolizes aesthetic
bliss when uniting with the divine;
Following yogic postures and breathing techniques, which
Tantric Art alone defines!
(
Both Khjuraho & Konark temples were re-discovered by the
British, & are now World Heritage Sites!)

Artistic invention followed the model of cosmic creation;
Ancient Vedic tradition visualized the spirit of a joyous
self-offering with chants and incantations!
The world was understood to be a structured arrangement
of five elements of earth, water, fire, air, and ethereal space;
Where each element brought forth a distinct art-expression
with artistic grace!
Element of Sculpture was earth, Painting the fluidity of water,
Dance was transformative fire, Music flowed through the air,
and Poetry vibrated in ethereal space!

CONCLUDING INTRODUCTION TO INDIAN ART:

Indian Art is like a prism with many dazzling facets,
I have only introduced the subject with its symbolism,
- without covering its complete assets!
After my Part Three on ‘Etruscan and Roman Art’,
Christian and Byzantine Art was to follow;
But following request from my few poet friends I have
postponed it for the morrow!
Traditional Indian Art survives through its sculptures,
architecture, paintings and folk art, ever evolving with
the passing of time and age;
Influenced by Buddhist, Jain, Muslim, Mogul, and many
indigenous art forms, enriching India’s cultural heritage!
While the art of our modern times constitutes a separate
Contemporary phase !
The juxtaposition of certain concepts and forms might
have appeared a bit intriguing,
But the spiritual content and symbolism in art answers
our basic artistic seeking!
The other aspects of Indian Art I plan to cover at a later
date,
Hope you liked my Introduction, being posted after
almost forty days!
ALL COPY RIGHTS ARE WITH RAJ NANDY
E-Mail: rajnandy21@yahoo.
    FEW COMMENTS BY POETS ON 'POETFREAK.COM' :-
I have a vicarious pleasure going through your historical journey of Indian art! Thanks for sharing this here! 2 Mar 2013 by Ramesh T A | Reply

The prism of Indian Art is indeed has myriads of facets and is an awesome mixture of many influences some of which you list here so clearly - a very understandable presentation of symbolism too - -thank you for your fine effort Raj. 2 Mar 2013 by Fay Slimm | Reply

Oh what an interesting read with immense information capturing every single detail. You painted this piece of art with utmost care. Truly, it's works Raj…tfs 2 Mar 2013 by John Thomas Tharayil | Reply

First, I have to say, the part about the lotus symbolism reminds me – My name ‘NILOTPAL’ can be split into ‘NIL’ meaning BLUE and ‘UTPAL’ meaning LOTUS. So my name represents wisdom (although it contradicts ME.. LOL). A lot of things were mentioned in the veda and other ancient Indian texts that were way ahead of the time Like the idea of ‘velocity of light’ got considerable mention in the rig veda-Sahan bhasya, ‘Elliptical order of planets, ‘Black holes’ , although these are the scientific aspects. The emphasis on contradictory elements or even the idea of opposites in Indian art is interesting because India developed the mathematical concept of ‘Zero’ and ‘infinity’. Hard to believe Rajasthan was a fertile place but now it possesses its own beauty. It was great to read about the Natraja, ‘OM’ and the trident(Trishul). Among symbolisms, Lord Ganseha is my favorite because a lot is portrayed in that one image like the MOOSHIK representing
When I composed the History of Western Art in Verse & posted the series on 'Poetfreak.com', few Indian poet friends requested me to compose on Indian Art separately. I am posting part one of my composition here for those who may like to know about Indian Art. Thanks & best wishes, -Raj
Rae Harrison Jul 2015
The bad memories flood my head, but i know now that I can pull the drain plug
It all goes swirling;
a tasteless tornado
an H20 hurricane
a liquid life ruiner
I know that water is that vital, but these fluid fragments wont provide me any good if I drink them back up
So, I drain the bad memories and drink up the good ones
and ****... they go down easy like cold water
What's wrong with you, with us,
what's happening to us?
Ah our love is a harsh cord
that binds us wounding us
and if we want
to leave our wound,
to separate,
it makes a new knot for us and condemns us
to drain our blood and burn together.

What's wrong with you? I look at you
and I find nothing in you but two eyes
like all eyes, a mouth
lost among a thousand mouths that I have kissed, more beautiful,
a body just like those that have slipped
beneath my body without leaving any memory.

And how empty you went through the world
like a wheat-colored jar
without air, without sound, without substance!
I vainly sought in you
depth for my arms
that dig, without cease, beneath the earth:
beneath your skin, beneath your eyes,
nothing,
beneath your double breast scarcely
raised
a current of crystalline order
that does not know why it flows singing.
Why, why, why,
my love, why?
Ashley Rodden Jul 2014
Colors won't ever change
But you changed the way I seen them
Words will fade once you explain
But I'll remember them the same
Lets make this count
In these last few hours
Start counting backwards
Falling in reverse
Saying goodbye is always the hardest

You don't have to ask for anything
Because you are my everything
I never felt complete without you
I'll never heal, I'll never forget
Want to leave my hate and surrender what's left but,
I'm all burnt out on words from a liars mouth
If you want more than just know that there's none left to give
Must I die for you to live?

I'm asking for the right
To drain you dry tonight
Save yourself before you forget
Let's meet somewhere in between the sheets
Heaven, hell or the bed I don't care it will end in regret
I'll take you away from everything
You're a dream and I a nightmare
Watch as I pick myself up off the ground
Listen as I scream
I fell in love in the dark somehow

As I turn my back and walk away
From all the pain
I'm tired of waiting
I need you now more than ever
You're the minutes and I'm the hours
Meet me somewhere in the middle
You still have me because I'm still breathing
Exchanging the sunlight
For brown eyes and dark skies
Replace this dull life
Just waiting to feel alive

You know me too well
I'm sorry can't you tell?
Just wake me when it's over
When the credits start rolling
I'll be the girl who got away and
Who never let you down
Never held you back or made a sound
So what scares me the most....
Being alone or being alive while feeling dead?
Can you sleep tonight if someone else holds you instead?
Please don't leave you have half of my heart
And I can't live if you take the best part.
pk tunuri Jun 2018
I left my home in the name of education
I left my hometown in the name of higher education
I left my state in the name of graduation
I left my family in the name of aspiration

At times, I miss my childhood
Although, the fun & friends weren't the same in my adulthood
In order to get rid of their falsehood
I left them too, for my own good

I have traveled so far away from home
Now, When I let my thoughts to roam
All they bring back is sadness and pain
And then, I left my tears to drain

I lost myself in this whole journey of life
There were times when I often looked for a knife
Not just to **** me but to end the pain
I left everything and I'm waiting for a magical rain
hidee makayla Sep 2014
from the mind it flows
traveling through my veins
down my bones.
every part of me rages
for comfort and ignorance.
I erupt,
my emotions drain
oh I wish
I wish I cared less.
Staff Sgt. Joseph D'Augustine
a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blessed
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest
April 4, 2012

1.

in a far off province of
God forsaken Helmand,
our dear son Joey
met his untimely end

an explosive crack
a most terrible sound
felled a beloved Jersey son
to the cold cruel ground

working the live wires
of a well placed IED
a deathly burst killed him
it was awful to see  

Staff Sgt. Joseph D’Augustine
in solemn duty fell
fellow brothers in arms
will forever reverently tell

of courage and character
of a dear fallen friend
and how the valiant warrior
met with death at his end

for he was always faithful
to his beloved corps
comrades couldn't ask
a valiant marine for more


2.

details of his death
are not the real story
selflessness and bravery
are but part of his glory

is it brash to
question why he fell?
in a useless bitter war
an embroiled senseless hell

a generation mustered
to fight in the war on terror
serving four tours of duty
in a lost decade of errors

two tours in Afghanistan and Iraq
could a nation ask a man for more?
for he was always faithful to the call
upholding pledges he hath sworn

3.

the burden of war
to a  few confined
it rarely crosses
an American’s mind

incessant war machine
drones on apace
the horror of conflict
so cleverly displaced

with afternoon baseball
and super bowl parties
big disco paychecks
and other selfish priorities

pay hollow tribute
to dear weary troops
when valor is mentioned
we gather in groups

we’ll raise the flag
sing stirring anthems
than its back to the party
pay it no more attention

self styled patriots
wave handfuls of flags
but ask them to contribute
the zeal soon lags

its left to the few
to shoulder burdens of many
fairness is lost
its a democratic calamity

four tours in a decade
an inhumane task
burdens require sharing
its only fair to ask

Joey was always faithful
to the task at hand
willing to step forward
to serve his homeland


4.

in the wake of 9/11
a nation deeply shaken
young patriots stirred
liberty’s call not forsaken

a call to serve answered
to quell the rise of terror
a clear clarion alarm
marks the nature of the era

Joey boldly came forward
to train and learn
the art of warriors
his bright patriotism burned

deployed to Afghanistan
to capture Osama
routing the Taliban
without much problem

but a pacified Afghan
not enough for Bush
he invaded Iraq
another military push

we rolled into Baghdad
adorned with victors garlands
Saddam’s statue toppled
our troops were honored

deposing a dictators
soon turned to occupation
a ****** mission transformed
to build the Iraqi and Afghan nations

once honored liberators
now a conquering force
bestriding broken nations
on a civil war course

military industrialists
stood to profit most
sweet protracted conflict
record earnings to boast

lives bartered for lucre
a region held hostage
the conflict deepened
hostilities hardened

America dipped into
a great recession
the war machine
bled money and
kept on ticking

scooping up contracts
rewarding investors
the dividends of war
heaven sent treasure

continuation of hostilities
preys on a nation's youth
as casualties mount
ill portents forsoothed

a fraction of citizens
bare heartaches of war
gulping measures of despair
to guard a nations door

a nation always faithful
to the holy pursuit of profit
a highest citizens calling
put money into your pocket


5.

our beloved Jersey son
gave a full measure of devotion
in dress blues they shipped him
back across the ocean

on the Dover tarmac
they received his remains
for a last ride northward
to his hometown terrain

repatriated body
bereft of soul saluted
solemn escort knelt
hearts trembled, tears muted

a hearse for a gallant man
flanked by state troop cruisers
to escort the funeral train
assure an honored movement

one last trip up
old thunder road
the storied highway
Joey often trod

the last detail legged up 17
reverent firefighters saluted  
from overpasses
to honor  the woeful scene

as the motorcade passed
the Garden State Malls
frenzied consumers
failed to notice at all

busy window shoppers
didn't to turn an eye
as Joey rolled home
to the sweet by and by

vets interred at the
Old Paramus Church
gently stirred in their graves
reasons for war they search

Channel 12 Chopper
circled its eye in the sky
televised the sad parade
captured many teary eyes

the early spring blooms
colorful petals displayed
maples and forsythias
a royal carpet laid

spring remains always faithful
as the new season turns
offer sunshine and glory
as our sinking hearts burn

6.

motorcycle escort
northbound lane clear
rolling homeward
Waldwick was near

leaves exploding
green shoots budding
****** white maple blooms
natures accolades stunning

the oaks yet bare
just waking from slumber
winters death passing
a sad day put asunder

the motorcade passed
Joey’s home on Prospect Ave
few  envision lifes endings
this woefully sad

red chevy pickup idles
in hoop crowned driveway
never to drain jumpers again
departed children can’t play

the eye in the sky
framed neighbors in mourning
welcoming back a fallen hero
unsettled emotions dawning

neighbors waved Old Glory
from painted stoops and curbs
unsure how this tragedy
visits this blessed suburb

green grass of home
always flush with spirit
tears welled in the eyes
most difficult to bear it

last cruise of the town
sad neighbors stand witness
paying final due respects
and ponder from a distance

what purpose is served
by this man’s passing?
the dead cannot speak
rationale is for the living

the terrible herse
death circles our town
moves through our day
hope of spring drowned

murderer of sunshine
killer of young flowers
budding trees breaking
our hearts an ashen pallor

we remember the beauty
of Joey’s stout face
as it looked on your finest day
exuding pure honor and grace

old vets gather
donning caps and pins
boasting semper fi jackets
jutting tear dripping chins

shaking hands, giving hugs
bearing tattered banners
the hearse ambles onward
we head home in solemn manner

good folks are always faithful
where beloved ones grew
the death of our children
we sadly cannot undo


7.

the bells of St. Lukes
called out from the sky
platoons of limping vets
marched in with pride

pomp and circumstance
requisite dress blues
family, friends, townsfolk
overflowed the pews

doleful bells resound
tolling a mournful reckon
the cost of war mounts
a family’s loss beckons

the casualties of war
falls upon a nation's youth
a seasons page not  turned
a flowing wound not soothed

the wistful cornet calling
floats on the fluted air
the bereaved ***** gently sounds
a congregations somber despair

an unsettling dirge
the parish grows uneasy
nationalist bravado wanes
in the forlorn sanctuary

both church and flag
draped in colors of war
mock stain glass windows
communicants adore

is it a betrayal of the flag
to offer enemies
psalms of reconciliation?
where does true loyalty lay
with God or a warring nation?

afterall this is a sanctuary
where peace and harmony reigns
are we not called to beat swords
into ploughshares as the highest
calling of our Lord?

we are always faithful
to the pathways to war
when the practice of peace
is what we should adore

8.

coughing and whispers
incessant low murmur
a baby cries out
we sit and remember

the crucifers process
in solemnity to greet
subtle ***** notes salute
a coffin draped in Old Glory sheets

the beloved child welcomed
to his eternal repose
priests splash holy water
within the sacred dome

an amazing grace revealed
lifted by marine pallbearers
dearly departed body presented
gently placed at the altar

a grief struck sister
lovingly eulogizes
recalls tonka trucks,
GI Joe’s and cool transformers

a punch in the nose
an approaching wedding
beckoning Eastertide
vacation plans left begging

my second grade class sent
Christmas cookies and cards
to dear Joey and warrior friends
he said it warmed stark winter hearts

he was raised in this church
taught trust and reconciliation
the comfort of the Lords peace
may it surely go with him

for he was always faithful
to sisters, family and faith
his resurrection service
imbues sacredness
to this space

9.

sharp in dress blues
Eddie T USMC Gunny
big 50 caliber smile
offers his eulogy

Bada Bing Jersey Humvee
we called him Joey Calzones
good mood, loved sausages
he tickled the funny bone

always willing to sacrifice
loved the Patriots Tom Brady
a women dominated household
gave him a way with the ladies

his calling explosive ordinances
he said he was livin the dream
March 6th last time we met
knocking frost off cold ones
man whatta scream

a gallant marine,
beloved brother,
a sure friend
he was always faithful
I’m deeply wounded
by his untimely end


10.

the gospel read
the homily offered
Ecclesiastes wisdom
a time for everything
proffered

God never turns
an eye from the beloved
though seasons change
we are not forsaken
never unloved

as loss arrives
surely grief grows
turn away not
wisdom knows

in resignation
love lay dead
diligent intention
banishes dread

our rekindled hope
we rend and sow
our beloved Joey
knew this was so

our favorite son’s
example taught us
now rises on eagle’s wings
to claim his divine justice

Jesus faithfully tramped
the path to an awful death
Joey too fought the good fight
a warrior now gratefully at rest

The Lord holds him close
to the ***** of sure love
a cantors beatific voice incants
Joey’s spirit that forever enchants

The Lord is always faithful
to the bereaved and  beloved
no one ever forsaken
all unconditionally loved

11.

the Holy Eucharistic cup
affirms everlasting giving
tasted to nourish evermore
a libation for the living

singing the Beatitudes
praising peace makers
mercy filled voice and song  
pallbearers lift Joey’s coffin

off to seek his final peace
an earthly occupation ended
he’ll suffer worldly hate no more
down the aisle his coffin wended

the family closely followed
a mother haltingly sobbing
faithful marines came forth
to steady her wobbling

there is no sudden waking
from this terrible dream
the pungent incense rose
to the chapels sacred beams

the stained glass murals depict
the passion of Jesus’s story
illuming a consuming sorrow
in all its grace filled glory

the ***** of death slinks on again
we search for consolation
the recompense of honor blest
leaves a hollow heart wanting
no answers offered to quell the dark
of these terrible life’s moments
only the desperate need to hold onto
beleaguered treasure that sustains us

for we are always faithful
to the things we know
always faithful to the
things we refuse to let go

12.

the color guard and funeral detail
assembled in front of St. Luke’s
the cemetery right next door
the procession a short troop

the living will stumble through
the darkness of separation
seeking elusive answers
of poignant uncertainty;
all gave some, Joey gave all
nothing more required for his
journey through eternity

Joey will always be with us
his stories forever retold
as long as the machinery of
great nations engage
the gears of wasteful war

Joey’s spirit lives
in a peoples desire
for freedom, only if
our hope of peace
is greater than the
need for conflict

Joey’s lifes work
is sure to bear fruit
if those remaining
fight the good fight
by taking up the
task to protect and
expand the values
of liberty we
hold most dear

like our good
friend Jesus
Joey wears a crown
bejeweled with
a ring of thorns
hoisted on a
terrible cross
the sweet
incense of you
meets our nose
we inhale your
earthly presence
beholding beautifully
adorned crucifix,
a reminder of
unjust persecution
and a perfect
resurrection
yet this wretched
coffin remains

pledging allegiance
we rationalize our
stories, articulating
our small parts
in  heroic sagas,
reciting myths of
ourselves, recording
the grim history of
a young marine
surrounded by
a smart color guard,
feasting on todays
eucharist, this
days sweet taste
of  the daily bread
of human sorrow

The priest finishes
his graveside
commendation
of Joey D

Taps conclude
a wind rises
crows take flight
winging over
a stand of budding
Sugar Maples
exploding in white
blooms, reveling
in the glorious
sunshine of this
magnificent day

St. Luke’s stairway to
God Country and Home
smiling portrait of you
forever young

we surround your grave
to bless the earth
you've returned home
to your place of birth

our flowing pride
and salty tears bless
the anointed ground
that you loved best

a proud Jersey son
whom Thou hast blest
laid in St. Luke’s ground
for his heavenly rest

for he was always faithful
to the blessed land
forever at peace
in the soils sure hands

Charles Ives
The Unanswered Question

Oakland
11/10/13
jbm
Evelyn Silver Dec 2015
My head, my heart, they are empty,
producing, containing nothing.
Yet, they are stuffed to the max,
flooding with thoughts, emotions, worries, hopes.
How can one be so empty, yet so full?
I am a ghost existing,
alive and dead in this twisted world.
They drain us of vitality and fill us with emptiness.
We are the lost.
Don’t bother looking for us,
we are already gone, found.
LJ Chaplin Sep 2014
Verse One
Lay down beside you,
On the dark side of the moon
So we're not blinded by the Sun,
Lean into you,
Deafened by the sirens
We could be lovers on the run,
Don't let go of you,
The world is caving
And there is nowhere we can go,
Don't turn away from you,
Dance upon the wire
We like to lose control

Chorus
Foolish hearts are easy to break,
Watch it crumble and circle the drain,
You ran away before I was able,
To look at the cards you threw to the table,
Left my heart be 'cause it was unstable,
Foolish hearts are hard to maintain,
You let me trust you again

Verse Two
You told me,
That we are made of steel
But we fell apart like paper,
You touched me,
Fingertips were warm
But emotions turned to vapour,
You cheated me,
Said I was invincible
But crumbled under pressure,
You never saw me,
A shipwreck of a man beneath
Skin that's made of leather

Chorus
Foolish hearts are easy to break,
Watch it crumble and circle the drain,
You ran away before I was able,
To look at the cards you threw to the table,
Left my heart be 'cause it was unstable,
Foolish hearts are hard to maintain,
You let me trust you again

Bridge
You twisted my words and I lost the battle,
Hiding the key and left me in shackles,
My foolish heart caved 'cause it was too much to handle,
You crushed in your hands,
Gone down the drain with the rest of our plans

Chorus**
Foolish hearts are easy to break,
Watch it crumble and circle the drain,
You ran away before I was able,
To look at the cards you threw to the table,
Left my heart be 'cause it was unstable,
Foolish hearts are hard to maintain,
You let me trust you again
At last you have departed and gone to the Unseen.
What marvelous route did you take from this world?

Beating your wings and feathers,
you broke free from this cage.
Rising up to the sky
you attained the world of the soul.
You were a prized falcon trapped by an Old Woman.
Then you heard the drummer's call
and flew beyond space and time.

As a lovesick nightingale, you flew among the owls.
Then came the scent of the rosegarden
and you flew off to meet the Rose.

The wine of this fleeting world
caused your head to ache.
Finally you joined the tavern of Eternity.
Like an arrow, you sped from the bow
and went straight for the bull's eye of bliss.

This phantom world gave you false signs
But you turned from the illusion
and journeyed to the land of truth.

You are now the Sun -
what need have you for a crown?
You have vanished from this world -
what need have you to tie your robe?

I've heard that you can barely see your soul.
But why look at all? -
yours is now the Soul of Souls!

O heart, what a wonderful bird you are.
Seeking divine heights,
Flapping your wings,
you smashed the pointed spears of your enemy.

The flowers flee from Autumn, but not you -
You are the fearless rose
that grows amidst the freezing wind.

Pouring down like the rain of heaven
you fell upon the rooftop of this world.
Then you ran in every direction
and escaped through the drain spout . . .

Now the words are over
and the pain they bring is gone.
Now you have gone to rest
in the arms of the Beloved.
Joe Roberts Mar 2013
Leaky facet,
rusty drain,
and all things driving you insane.

Ticking clock,
some busted glass,
reminders of events gone past.

Fix the facet,
change the drain,
smash the clock,
clean up the glass,
but still go insane.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2015
poet, or philosopher, it doesn't really matter which is which, or whether the two are indistinguishable, notable in the former scenario, when someone has an eclectic bounty of interest is simply not love-scorned or love-nostalgic, love-idealistic, does it really matter? i was once called a philosopher: a teenage girl said in third person (as if she was a puppet and some-thing was moving her tongue): 'talk to this philosopher'... not in that sarcastic way that philosopher is an misnomer or an abused term of: self-gratifying grandeour, it was quiet genuine, but: imagine my shock... i had an ambition in life, it was to perform a service to thinking: without doing as much as hammering a nail into a plank of wood, that's the ambition of any thinking man: to borderline on telekinesis or telepathy... that was Hegel's modus operandi, his categorical imperative... after all: ego is a metaphysical tool, while thought is its metaphysical canvas... the mere suggestion that a copernican inversion can happen in physics "contra" metaphysics... it's already apparent, any word can behave like a hand touching the sacred object / subject of transfiguration and become something else, even a misnomer can find itself given solace to the user... for now i've forged a belief in the ultimate: away from the absolute in relation to omni in unum - one first has to learn to think, before having to learn to feel... mind you, i don't like the current nietzschean inversion of the cartesian equation: (ego) sum ergo (ego) cogito... esp. among the youtube political commentators, too many examples to give: i'm a classical liberal, i'm a progressive, i'm a liberterian... i don't really like seeing: i am, precede i think... i don't even like the origin-argument of this inversion: i exist for the sole purpose of thinking... after all: i think prior to being, since i can also daydream and not be what my thinking suspects as a possible truth-outcome... that's the nature of the freedom of thought: i don't have to be what i think, i can find thinking to be a pleasure, when the senses do not offer me any pleasure derivative, e.g. eating can sometimes be boring, chewing, chewing, *******... i eat because i need to live: i don't live to eat... i really have under-appreciated Hegel, i should really visit my grandparents for two months and read the phenomenology of the spirit: i'm trying to replicate the saying attributed to him (verbatim), but i doubt that i will, i don't have the patience to sift through all the quotes, but it goes along the lines of: beware oh wordly man, to not be a pawn in a thinking man's game... hence my suggestion of philosophy entering into the realms of telekinesis and telepathy: you get to see things play out and people express the origin story, of your own memetic generation of the original idea... how are poets finally alligned to philosophers? good thing that i studied chemistry at edinburgh university: we return to atoms, words are no longer enough, sure, they are, contrary to the statement...  (why did i under-appreciate Hegel? ah... had my head stuck up heidegger's and kant's *****...

  integration? great!
but i'll meet you halfway...
    i'll eat your fish & chips,
your englush breakfast,
  i won't sing your anthem: god save the queen,
****** anthem, too short,
but i will whistle through:
the british grenadiers' fife & drum...
like i might through la marseillaise...
i'll meet you halfway...
i'm not a former colony member,
commonwealth,
   i'm not some ****- paying bribes
to the british powers
to join in on a world cup of cricket...
this is what happens when immigration
turns sour...
they either lesrn the host tongue,
or they don't learn it...
or they can't distinguish the two:
speak polonaise at home,
speak the hosts' sprechen outside of it...

   if the ******* aren't suspect:
by not being bilingual...
the arab beatles... jihadi john...
          ringo star h'ahmed...
  george ali...
                paul mecca rashid...
oh i'll settle for integration...
but don't you ******* think i'll give
up my mother tongue
for "c.c.t.v." close-ups back home,
home being my private lodge...
like ******* will...
  i'll speak your tongue in public...
but i'm not ******* former commonwealth
****- riddled with a need to play
cricket, "forget" my tongue in order
to compensate for olives
              and sun-burnt bananas!

a former colony ****-**** is about
to dictate the rules for fellow
europeans, on the tram-ride from
Birmingham to Nottingham?
seriously?
        but of course the englishman
will favor the former colony pet bush-monkey
from sri lanka...
since the brit can't really dictate
to a fellow european his superiority
complex... which he can...
with a petted copper skinned
toy-ting...
who brought 'im a korma curry!
nice one, ol' laddy...
        right on the plonker...
                 i'm not finished!
                        i'm just getting started!

gehirnablassen:

perfectly respected immigration,
given that so many english girls just love
the attention their **** minders,
sexually abused,
not really making it as nurses
or... ahem... karaoke superstars
worth the while of britain's got talent
or voice of britain,
or...whatever the ****** show was
that gave birth to one direction...

so a.... brain-drain? good immigration?
the best!

i can sit awhile by myself and count...
1. the sparrows,
2. the swallow,
3. the starlings,
   4. the crows,
5. the magpies,
6. the pigeons,
7. the woodland pigeons
(fatter, with dog collars),
8. kestrels
  (one is enough to begin
the count)...
9. the blackbirds....
10. seagulls... seagulls?! 25 miles from
romford to southend! seagulls?!
this far in-land?! fair enough...
11. a robin...
                   12. goldfinch...
i just sit and watch these birds
in my garden, i sometimes spot
a darting frog in the garden,
i'm more english than the english...
i actually enjoy owning a garden...
the "english" surrounding me
exemplify a bbq. as a luxury parade...
what's so luxury about marinating
some meat, and then grilling it?!
please! enlightend me!

    gehirnablassen...
                   brain-drain immigration,
the type asiatic tiger-mums brag about
at child olympics...
   for the required rubric stature...
******* mothers, basically...

1. χaron χaos - cha-cha-cha       khaos
2. theaetetus - so / ma   letters / syllables:
     graphemes: sz phi theta
      compound syllables (caron s) - Na (sodium)
3. music choice...
       brain damage perturbator ft. noir deco
    virga iesse floruit, gradual of eleanor of
britanny...
4. pride / stubborness (not equal to) honour,
tolerating islam is not the same
as respceting islam...
   german 19th century fascination
with islam...
     θought and φilosophy...
   greek in warsaw, giving him directions,
talks: sounds so much like spanish...
5. england a nation of singletons,
idiosyncracy... social pressures in poland
and even in h'america missing in england
to marry...

1.

chamaleon tongue,                    shape shifter,
bez akcentu w piśmie - więciej akcentu poza pismem
(trainspotting scottish), welsh, cockney,
east london altogether, pakistani english, etc.
e.g. rather, or raver, i.e. not rayver
(someone who parties at night on ecstasy pill)
but ra'ver, like verging on a new discovery,
it's not even the = ~v but is actually v...
english is a chamaleon tongue, you say 'nostic
when you write gnostic, i say diagnostic,
therefore say gnostic, you say 'nome, i say gnome,
as cf. with diagnostic;
then there's the case of the per se:
you say chamaleon - no kappa there apperent, eh?
but there's chappie, chap, chuckles,
no kappa in a millionth chance
to also say nough'ledge for knowledge,
a bit like that gnome of yours...
as i said before: a language without
a written insertion of stressors / distinctions
will produce a massive array of diacritical
stressors / distinctions outside the written format,
but it will also become as complex as to
allow adults with learning difficulties e.g. dyslexia,
and that horrid internet slang of shortcuts:
i ate my 8 when i was late for my disco date
with the cha cha cha melon.

p.s. if there's a hay patch at the beginning, the nasal flute
will ask larry 'the lynx' saxophone to hark it out with rasp
gritting of phlegm... but if it's somewhere else down
the piccadilly line... it will act like a nudist spy and resonate
less than expected; probably mingling with f, i think.
It's stuck in my head,
Until it's gone,
When I can make endless complaints
Endless back stabs to match.
But till its gone, it is there.
After it's been there and gone,
It is there again.
Every night of everyday
And also in random hours of my days.
I see the old, then I see the new.
It seems my world has turned black and blue.
My heart beats faster
And my eyes: they cry.
I feel I am mourning a loss;
Of someone never born to be able to die.
It's the cases like this
That are always the worst.
You think you've found someone,
When they're not there at all.
So many good times
Have all gone down the drain,
Because everyone's a faker.
Don't you know I hate liars?
You liar, you deceitful and manipulative ****!
You *****!
I hate you,
I hate you,
And then I hate you even more.
What you have done made me fall to the floor.
I don't know how I can get through this,
Because last time I could just hate,
Which still I am doing.
You make that more difficult.
Because when all the memories
Come back again,
I don't want to believe that was you,
Surely it can't be true?
But I know too well
To be fooled more than once,
Not that there's a way you would make it twice,
Because you hate me too.
It's all because of you.
And her
And the other.
All "best friends" do
Is end up having to stab each other.
You see I am missing,
Someone nonexistent.
I knew it was too good to be true,
But that won't stop me bleeding.
I wish the 'you' I was friends with
Was actually real.
Instead I just feel messed over,
All over again.
I don't want to picture,
Not anymore,
Of what's flashing through my head.
The so many too good times.
They've been damaged again.
I trusted you
As I trusted them all,
Because you have to trust to do anything at all.
Again and again trusting proved to be devastating,
Because there is no one who actually
Has your back.
So no I don't want to picture,
I don't want another picture game.
When I'm talking about you in rants,
The devil is your name.
When I'm speaking I do not have to be sad,
It's only the times that I get to think on my own,
When I feel even more torn down.
When I see you walking around,
I wish you were not.
Do you know not what exactly you all have caused?
I can hear you all talking,
Just like we all used to do,
Then the thousands of memories
Come flooding in once again.
And until I convince myself to dry up my emotions,
I watch the dry river banks
Become diluted without letting the rain fall.
Because my tears;
You never deserved them at all.
I don't want to picture what you may think of me.
If you hate me then go on,
You can resent me as much as you can.
But maybe you'd like to know:
I stood up for you.
Even though it was proved to be true.
I didn't believe it at first,
Because it was you.
How dare you!
If you think I didn't know reasons to take sides,
Didn't you think I would defend you as I did her?
Well I ******* tried!
And if roles were reversed then I would've taken yours,
As it wasn't out of favouritism as it stood,
But because you were so unbelievable
That nothing could be done.
No friendship was saved.
Being civilised?
Well I just try to ignore your name.
Chalsey Wilder Jun 2014
Corrupted thoughts and dreams turns whispers into screams
But reality
Oh how reality turns screams into whispers that corrupt and drain
Drain innocence left behind
Uses every bit of breath to corrupt good hearts, good minds, good starts
Screams to whispers
Whispers to screams
Corrupts our hearts
Corrupts our subconscious and dreams
Whatever you whisper just don't scream...
Victor D López Dec 2018
You were born five years before the Spanish Civil War that would see your father exiled.
Language came later to you than your little brother Manuel. And you stuttered for a time.
Unlike those who speak incessantly with nothing to say, you were quiet and reserved.
Your mother mistook shyness for dimness, a tragic mistake that scarred you for life.

When your brother Manuel died at the age of three from meningitis, you heard your mom
Exclaim: “God took my bright boy and left me the dull one.” You were four or five.
You never forgot those words. How could you? Yet you loved your mom with all your heart.
But you also withdrew further into a shell, solitude your companion and best friend.

You were, in fact, an exceptional child. Stuttering went away at five or so never to return,
And by the time you were in middle school, your teacher called your mom in for a rare
Conference and told her that yours was a gifted mind, and that you should be prepared
For university study in the sciences, particularly engineering.

She wrote your father exiled in Argentina to tell him the good news, that your teachers
Believed you would easily gain entrance to the (then and now) highly selective public university
Where seats were few, prized and very difficult to attain based on merit-based competitive
Exams. Your father’s response? “Buy him a couple of oxen and let him plow the fields.”

That reply from a highly respected man who was a big fish in a tiny pond in his native Oleiros
Of the time is beyond comprehension. He had apparently opted to preserve his own self-
Interest in having his son continue his family business and also work the family lands in his
Absence. That scar too was added to those that would never heal in your pure, huge heart.

Left with no support for living expenses for college (all it would have required), you moved on,
Disappointed and hurt, but not angry or bitter; you would simply find another way.
You took the competitive exams for the two local military training schools that would provide
An excellent vocational education and pay you a small salary in exchange for military service.

Of hundreds of applicants for the prized few seats in each of the two institutions, you
Scored first for the toughest of the two and thirteenth for the second. You had your pick.
You chose Fabrica de Armas, the lesser of the two, so that a classmate who had scored just
Below the cut-off at the better school could be admitted. That was you. Always and forever.

At the military school, you were finally in your element. You were to become a world-class
Machinist there—a profession that would have gotten you well paid work anywhere on earth
For as long as you wanted it. You were truly a mechanical genius who years later would add
Electronics, auto mechanics and specialized welding to his toolkit through formal training.

Given a well-stocked machine shop, you could reverse engineer every machine without
Blueprints and build a duplicate machine shop. You became a gifted master mechanic
And worked in line and supervisory positions at a handful of companies throughout your life in
Argentina and in the U.S., including Westinghouse, Warner-Lambert, and Pepsi Co.

You loved learning, especially in your fields (electronics, mechanics, welding) and expected
Perfection in everything you did. Every difficult job at work was given to you everywhere you
Worked. You would not sleep at night when a problem needed solving. You’d sketch
And calculate and re-sketch solutions and worked even in your dreams with singular passion.

You were more than a match for the academic and physical rigors of military school,
But life was difficult for you in the Franco era when some instructors would
Deprecatingly refer to you as “Roxo”—Galician for “red”-- reflecting your father’s
Support for the failed Republic. Eventually, the abuse was too much for you to bear.

Once while standing at attention in a corridor with the other cadets waiting for
Roll call, you were repeatedly poked in the back surreptitiously. Moving would cause
Demerits and demerits could cause loss of points on your final grade and arrest for
Successive weekends. You took it awhile, then lost your temper.

You turned to the cadet behind you and in a fluid motion grabbed him by his buttoned jacket
And one-handedly hung him up on a hook above a window where you were standing in line.
He thrashed about, hanging by the back of his jacket, until he was brought down by irate Military instructors.
You got weekend arrest for many weeks and a 10% final grade reduction.

A similar fate befell a co-worker a few years later in Buenos Aires who called you a
*******. You lifted him one handed by his throat and held him there until
Your co-workers intervened, forcibly persuading you to put him down.
That lesson was learned by all in no uncertain terms: Leave Felipe’s mom alone.

You were incredibly strong, especially in your youth—no doubt in part because of rigorous farm
Work, military school training and competitive sports. As a teenager, you once unwisely bent
Down to pick something up in view of a ram, presenting the animal an irresistible target.
It butted you and sent you flying into a haystack. It, too, quickly learned its lesson.

You dusted yourself off, charged the ram, grabbed it by the horns and twirled it around once,
Throwing it atop the same haystack as it had you. The animal was unhurt, but learned to
Give you a wide berth from that day forward. Overall, you were very slow to anger absent
Head-butting, repeated pokings, or disrespectful references to your mom by anyone.    

I seldom saw you angry and it was mom, not you, who was the disciplinarian, slipper in hand.
There were very few slaps from you for me. Mom would smack my behind with a slipper often
When I was little, mostly because I could be a real pain, wanting to know/try/do everything
Completely oblivious to the meaning of the word “no” or of my own limitations.

Mom would sometimes insist you give me a proper beating. On one such occasion for a
Forgotten transgression when I was nine, you  took me to your bedroom, took off your belt, sat
Me next to you and whipped your own arm and hand a few times, whispering to me “cry”,
Which I was happy to do unbidden. “Don’t tell mom.” I did not. No doubt she knew.

The prospect of serving in a military that considered you a traitor by blood became harder and
Harder to bear, and in the third year of school, one year prior to graduation, you left to join
Your exiled father in Argentina, to start a new life. You left behind a mother and two sisters you
Dearly loved to try your fortune in a new land. Your dog thereafter refused food, dying of grief.

You arrived in Buenos Aires to see a father you had not seen for ten years at the age of 17.
You were too young to work legally, but looked older than your years (a shared trait),
So you lied about your age and immediately found work as a Machinist/Mechanic first grade.
That was unheard of and brought you some jealousy and complaints in the union shop.

The union complained to the general manager about your top-salary and rank. He answered,
“I’ll give the same rank and salary to anyone in the company who can do what Felipe can do.”
No doubt the jealousy and grumblings continued by some for a time. But there were no takers.
And you soon won the group over, becoming their protected “baby-brother” mascot.

Your dad left for Spain within a year or so of your arrival when Franco issued a general pardon
To all dissidents who had not spilt blood (e.g., non combatants). He wanted you to return to
Help him reclaim the family business taken over by your mom in his absence with your help.
But you refused to give up the high salary, respect and independence denied you at home.

You were perhaps 18 and alone, living in a single room by a schoolhouse you had shared with Your dad.
But you had also found a new loving family in your uncle José, one of your father’s Brothers, and his family. José, and one of his daughters, Nieves and her
Husband, Emilio, and
Their children, Susana, Oscar (Ruben Gordé), and Osvaldo, became your new nuclear family.

You married mom in 1955 and had two failed business ventures in the quickly fading
Post-WW II Argentina of the late 1950s and early 1960s.The first, a machine shop, left
You with a small fortune in unpaid government contract work.  The second, a grocery store,
Also failed due to hyperinflation and credit extended too easily to needy customers.

Throughout this, you continued earning an exceptionally good salary. But in the mid 1960’s,
Nearly all of it went to pay back creditors of the failed grocery store. We had some really hard
Times. Someday I’ll write about that in some detail. Mom went to work as a maid, including for
Wealthy friends, and you left home at 4:00 a.m. to return long after dark to pay the bills.


The only luxury you and mom retained was my Catholic school tuition. There was no other
Extravagance. Not paying bills was never an option for you or mom. It never entered your
Minds. It was not a matter of law or pride, but a matter of honor. There were at least three very
Lean years where you and mom worked hard, earned well but we were truly poor.

You and mom took great pains to hide this from me—and suffered great privations to insulate
Me as best you could from the fallout of a shattered economy and your refusal to cut your loses
Had done to your life savings and to our once-comfortable middle-class life.
We came to the U.S. in the late 1960s after waiting for more than three years for visas—to a new land of hope.

Your sister and brother-in-law, Marisa and Manuel, made their own sacrifices to help bring us
Here. You had about $1,000 from the down payment on our tiny down-sized house, And
Mom’s pawned jewelry. (Hyperinflation and expenses ate up the remaining mortgage payments
Due). Other prized possessions were left in a trunk until you could reclaim them. You never did.

Even the airline tickets were paid for by Marisa and Manuel. You insisted upon arriving on
Written terms for repayment including interest. You were hired on the spot on your first
Interview as a mechanic, First Grade, despite not speaking a word of English. Two months later,
The debt was repaid, mom was working too and we moved into our first apartment.

You worked long hours, including Saturdays and daily overtime, to remake a nest egg.
Declining health forced you to retire at 63 and shortly thereafter you and mom moved out of
Queens into Orange County. You bought a townhouse two hours from my permanent residence
Upstate NY and for the next decade were happy, traveling with friends and visiting us often.

Then things started to change. Heart issues (two pacemakers), colon cancer, melanoma,
Liver and kidney disease caused by your many medications, high blood pressure, gout,
Gall bladder surgery, diabetes . . . . And still you moved forward, like the Energizer Bunny,
Patched up, battered, scarred, bruised but unstoppable and unflappable.

Then mom started to show signs of memory loss along with her other health issues. She was
Good at hiding her own ailments, and we noticed much later than we should have that there
Was a serious problem. Two years ago, her dementia worsening but still functional, she had
Gall bladder surgery with complications that required four separate surgeries in three months.

She never recovered and had to be placed in a nursing home. Several, in fact, as at first she
Refused food and you and I refused to simply let her waste away, which might have been
Kinder, but for the fact that “mientras hay vida, hay esperanza” as Spaniards say.
(While there is Life there is hope.) There is nothing beyond the power of God. Miracles do happen.

For two years you lived alone, refusing outside help, engendering numerous arguments about
Having someone go by a few times a week to help clean, cook, do chores. You were nothing if
Not stubborn (yet another shared trait). The last argument on the subject about two weeks ago
Ended in your crying. You’d accept no outside help until mom returned home. Period.

You were in great pain because of bulging discs in your spine and walked with one of those
Rolling seats with handlebars that mom and I picked out for you some years ago. You’d sit
As needed when the pain was too much, then continue with very little by way of complaints.
Ten days ago you finally agreed that you needed to get to the hospital to drain abdominal fluid.

Your failing liver produced it and it swelled your abdomen and lower extremities to the point
Where putting on shoes or clothing was very difficult, as was breathing. You called me from a
Local store crying that you could not find pants that would fit you. We talked, long distance,
And I calmed you down, as always, not allowing you to wallow in self pity but trying to help.

You went home and found a new pair of stretch pants Alice and I had bought you and you were
Happy. You had two changes of clothes that still fit to take to the hospital. No sweat, all was
Well. The procedure was not dangerous and you’d undergone it several times in recent years.
It would require a couple of days at the hospital and I’d see you again on the weekend.

I could not be with you on Monday, February 22 when you had to go to the hospital, as I nearly
Always had, because of work. You were supposed to be admitted the previous Friday, but
Doctors have days off too, and yours could not see you until Monday when I could not get off
Work. But you were not concerned; this was just routine. You’d be fine. I’d see you in just days.

We’d go see mom Friday, when you’d be much lighter and feel much better. Perhaps we’d go
Shopping for clothes if the procedure still left you too bloated for your usual clothes.
You drove to your doctor and then transported by ambulette. I was concerned, but not too Worried.
You called me sometime between five or six p.m. to tell me you were fine, resting.

“Don’t worry. I’m safe here and well cared for.” We talked for a little while about the usual
Things, with my assuring you I’d see you Friday or Saturday. You were tired and wanted to sleep
And I told you to call me if you woke up later that night or I’d speak to you the following day.
Around 10:00 p.m. I got a call from your cell and answered in the usual upbeat manner.

“Hey, Papi.” On the other side was a nurse telling me my dad had fallen. I assured her she was
Mistaken, as my dad was there for a routine procedure to drain abdominal fluid. “You don’t
Understand. He fell from his bed and struck his head on a nightstand or something
And his heart has stopped. We’re working on him for 20 minutes and it does not look good.”

“Can you get here?” I could not. I had had two or three glasses of wine shortly before the call
With dinner. I could not drive the three hours to Middletown. I cried. I prayed.
Fifteen minutes Later I got the call that you were gone. Lost in grief, not knowing what to do, I called my wife.
Shortly thereafter came a call from the coroner. An autopsy was required. I could not see you.

Four days later your body was finally released to the funeral director I had selected for his
Experience with the process of interment in Spain. I saw you for the last time to identify
Your body. I kissed my fingers and touched your mangled brow. I could not even have the
Comfort of an open casket viewing. You wanted cremation. You body awaits it as I write this.

You were alone, even in death alone. In the hospital as strangers worked on you. In the medical
Examiner’s office as you awaited the autopsy. In the autopsy table as they poked and prodded
And further rent your flesh looking for irrelevant clues that would change nothing and benefit
No one, least of all you. I could not be with you for days, and then only for a painful moment.

We will have a memorial service next Friday with your ashes and a mass on Saturday. I will
Never again see you in this life. Alice and I will take you home to your home town, to the
Cemetery in Oleiros, La Coruña, Spain this summer. There you will await the love of your life.
Who will join you in the fullness of time. She could not understand my tears or your passing.

There is one blessing to dementia. She asks for her mom, and says she is worried because she
Has not come to visit in some time. She is coming, she assures me whenever I see her.
You visited her every day except when health absolutely prevented it. You spent this February 10
Apart, your 61st wedding anniversary, too sick to visit her. Nor was I there. First time.

I hope you did not realize you were apart on the 10th but doubt it to be the case. I
Did not mention it, hoping you’d forgotten, and neither did you. You were my link to mom.
She cannot dial or answer a phone, so you would put your cell phone to her ear whenever I
Was not in class or meetings and could speak to her. She always recognized me by phone.

I am three hours from her. I could visit at most once or twice a month. Now even that phone
Lifeline is severed. Mom is completely alone, afraid, confused, and I cannot in the short term at
Least do much about that. You were not supposed to die first. It was my greatest fear, and
Yours, but as with so many things that we cannot change I put it in the back of my mind.

It kept me up many nights, but, like you, I still believed—and believe—in miracles.
I would speak every night with my you, often for an hour, on the way home from work late at
Night during my hour-long commute, or from home on days I worked from home as I cooked
Dinner. I mostly let you talk, trying to give you what comfort and social outlet I could.

You were lonely, sad, stuck in an endless cycle of emotional and physical pain.
Lately you were especially reticent to get off the phone. When mom was home and still
Relatively well, I’d call every day too but usually spoke to you only a few minutes and you’d
Transfer the phone to mom, with whom I usually chatted much longer.

For months, you’d had difficulty hanging up. I knew you did not want to go back to the couch,
To a meaningless TV program, or to writing more bills. You’d say good-bye, or “enough for
Today” and immediately begin a new thread, then repeat the cycle, sometimes five or six times.
You even told me, at least once crying recently, “Just hang up on me or I’ll just keep talking.”

I loved you, dad, with all my heart. We argued, and I’d often scream at you in frustration,
Knowing you would never take it to heart and would usually just ignore me and do as
You pleased. I knew how desperately you needed me, and I tried to be as patient as I could.
But there were days when I was just too tired, too frustrated, too full of other problems.

There were days when I got frustrated with you just staying on the phone for an hour when I
Needed to call Alice, to eat my cold dinner, or even to watch a favorite program. I felt guilty
And very seldom cut a conversation short, but I was frustrated nonetheless even knowing
How much you needed me and also how much I needed you, and how little you asked of me.  

How I would love to hear your voice again, even if you wanted to complain about the same old
Things or tell me in minutest detail some unimportant aspect of your day. I thought I would
Have you at least a little longer. A year? Two? God only knew, and I could hope. There would be
Time. I had so much more to share with you, so much more to learn when life eased up a bit.

You taught me to fish (it did not take) and to hunt (that took even less) and much of what I
Know about mechanics, and electronics. We worked on our cars together for years—from brake
Jobs, to mufflers, to real tune-ups in the days when points, condensers, and timing lights had Meaning, to rebuilding carburetors and fixing rust and dents, and power windows and more.

We were friends, good friends, who went on Sunday drives to favorite restaurants or shopping
For tools when I was single and lived at home. You taught me everything in life that I need to
Know about all the things that matter. The rest is meaningless paper and window dressing.
I knew all your few faults and your many colossal strengths and knew you to be the better man.

Not even close. I could never do what you did. I could never excel in my fields as you did in
Yours.  You were the real deal in every way, from every angle, throughout your life. I did not
Always treat you that way. But I loved you very deeply as anyone who knew us knows.
More importantly, you knew it. I told you often, unembarrassed in the telling. I love you, Dad.

The world was enriched by your journey. You do not leave behind wealth, or a body or work to
Outlive you. You never had your fifteen minutes in the sun. But you mattered. God knows your
Virtue, your absolute integrity, and the purity of your heart. I will never know a better man.
I will love you and miss you and carry you in my heart every day of my life. God bless you, dad.
slay Oct 2018
Painted realize
Real lies
Contoured my jawline
Choked out fragmented, underchewed bites of asinine rhymes
Forcing my way back up mucked in stomach enzymes
Didnt anyone ever tell you to take your time?
Take smaller bites?
Or like women with strong personalities you bit off more than you could chew?
Drank far less tea than you once thought to brew
Did your mother ever blame herself when you couldnt finish your plate,
Or were you forced to sit there until its contents were scraped
Like the walls of my brain?
Digging my nails so deep into my hair i siphoned a drain
Relinquishing my lungs from the broth of my distain
Now that's where she really sealed my fate;
Letting you up from your dinner place before you cleaned your nightly plate
And so forth you learned what you wanted to take
Was alright with the woman who slaved hours of her day away
For the perfect texture,
Temperature,
Taste testing testamur
SO WHY NOT ME?
No man will ever know all the baby hairs ive tamed,
Couches ive rearranged,
Backs of earrings I've misplaced,
Shaved my legs,
Beat my face,
Smeared a fragrance down the nape n pinned my curls back only to let them fall with the grace you couldn't show.
Setting the dinner table, to which I was prone,
Pouring tea for two until I realized I was drinking alone.
Deyalyn Batista May 2014
My hands are red and sticky from trying too hard,
I can feel them losing grip around your wrists.
Whose blood is it, anyway?
Dripping on the concrete,
Swirling down the drain,
Staining our soles.
Is it mine or is it yours?
Andrew Rueter Dec 2018
I live in the drain
With runoff rain
That unlocked pain
Inside of my brain
That’s a dying flame
From mighty shame

This life is draining
Never obtaining
The proper training
Or someone explaining
Something worth retaining
As time continues waning

I live life in the gutter
When my relation to others
Is either finding a lover
Or running for cover
No middle ground under
My path quaking asunder

My life is leeched
And washed in bleach
As I drain what I preach
Focusing on what others teach
So I may one day reach
A tranquil beach

They drained my spirit
Because they fear it
But now can’t hear it
Or see its appearance
Since its draining clearance
After outside interference

My energy sapped
From their attack
I join the pack
Not looking back
Down the swirling drain
Used to put me in chains
Becoming my barrier bane
That carries the pain
Of having nothing to gain
For I can’t handle the strain
Of living life in the drain
Victoria Queen May 2014
They say that over time, it dissipates -
it will drain from you, evaporate like smoke.
It will descend upon you, destroy you;
but will soon release you, and fade.

But with time it instead grows stronger,
demanding to be felt.
It knocks on the doors of my soul,
its urgency to be let inside unrelenting and ruthless.

Like an unpredictable storm, it lands and ravages,
leaving just fragments of a heart already rebuilt.
What is gone is the will;
the resiliency dulled, the courage spent.

It's a deep-rooted ****, an unrivaled opponent;
It's a malevolent fire that refuses to be smothered.
The Hurt:
a wound that permeates, and remains.

— The End —